|
| To the Countesse of Bedford. |
| Begun in France, but never perfected. |
|
| Though I be dead and buried, yet I have |
| (Living in you) Court enough in my grave, |
| As oft as there I thinke my selfe to bee, |
| So many resurrections waken mee. |
| That thankfulnesse your favours have begot |
| In mee, embalmes me; that I doe not rot; |
| This season as 'tis Easter, as 'tis spring, |
| Must both to growth and to confession bring |
| My thoughts dispos'd unto your influence, so |
| These verses bud, so these confessions grow; |
| First I confesse I have to others lent |
| Your stock, and over prodigally spent |
| Your treasure, for since I had never knowne |
| Vertue or beautie, but as they are growne |
| In you, I should not thinke or say they shine, |
| (So as I have) in any other Mine; |
| Next I confesse this my confession, |
| For, 'tis some fault thus much to touch upon |
| Your praise to you, where half rights seem too much, |
| And make your mindes sincere complexion blush. |
| Next I confesse my'impenitence, for I |
| Can scarce repent my first fault, since thereby |
| Remote low Spirits, which shall ne'r reade you, |
| May in lesse lessons finde enough to doe, |
| By studying copies, not Originals, |
| Desunt cætera.
|
[CW: To] |